


Cloudland

by AmazonWorrier



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-01-15 10:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18497419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazonWorrier/pseuds/AmazonWorrier
Summary: Everybody knows that everybody dies. Except those who actually die and then realise they didn’t…





	1. Lexa

 

Lexa was confused.

She was lying on a metal slab in a cold, white room. Her feet were bare; her usual comfortable Trikru clothing replaced with a plain black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. She looked like Skaikru. Why the hell did she look like Skaikru?

The last thing Lexa remembered was lying in Clarke’s bedroom in Polis. She remembered being in pain. Significant pain. Clarke was crying, but she couldn’t remember why. And Titus, she thinks maybe Titus was there too. But what was Titus doing in Clarke’s -

Oh.

She had died, hadn’t she? _Jok._

It was all flooding back to her now. A stray bullet to the chest. A ridiculous stroke of bad luck, so ridiculous it was almost laughable. Only almost, though, because no matter how nonsensical of a manner in which she had managed to die, all Lexa could feel was a sharp stab of pain when recalling what she’d left behind. Polis, her people. Though, she supposed they would be fine. She had trained her Natblidas well and had every confidence that they would honour her mission. Lexa would miss her people, but they were not the reason the thought of being gone forever hurt so much.

Clarke.

Oh, the irony. Of course it would be Wanheda standing over her in her final moments. Lexa felt so much grief in recalling her death. Not because she had died. Lexa had accepted long ago that her death was inevitable in her position. She knew death was not the end for her. No, it was not her death that hurt. It was knowing that her counterpart would have seen the cruel irony in her death. Killed by a stray bullet intended for Clarke. Killed by the man who thought he was protecting Lexa from Clarke. Killed, essentially, for loving Clarke. Clarke would absolutely punish herself for it for the rest of her life. Lexa feared what might become of her love now that she was no longer there to remind her of the things that were not her fault. No one else ever seemed to do that.

The Commander scolded herself. Now was not the time for any of that. She could contemplate the pain of leaving Clarke alone all day but none of that would be at all productive in helping her to answer the incredibly perplexing and utterly oxymoronic question that had been resting in the back of her mind since she found herself on this slab of metal.

How was she alive if she was dead?

Lexa had seen the inside of the Flame in her dreams and this was most certainly not it. She wondered briefly if she had somehow survived and ended up in Arcadia. It would at least explain the clothing and sterile decor. Clarke had always described the Ark as a dark, cold place though. The room Lexa was in had white walls, with windows adorning the far left corner; allowing plenty of light to stream in.

Wherever she was, this was unfamiliar territory. Only a fool would allow themselves to remain vulnerable in unfamiliar territory. Lexa eased herself into a seated position on the bench, careful not to disturb what was left of her injuries.

She paused. No pain.

Glancing down towards her ribcage where the bullet wound had been, Lexa pulled her shirt aside to reveal her abdomen. Her breath caught in her throat.

The bullet wound had healed completely, which Lexa assumed could have happened if she had been unconscious for a few weeks. What she failed to rationalise, however, was the complete absence of there ever having been a bullet wound in the first place. There wasn’t a scratch on her.

Rage simmered within Lexa’s chest. What the hell was going on?

As if on cue, Lexa heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps approaching behind her. She turned around to face a large metal door, straightening but remaining seated. Anya had always said that one must remain ready to engage in combat but opt for peaceful discussion first. Lexa had lived by that until her dying breath, and supposed there was no reason to stop now either. The footsteps grew closer. Whomever it was, they were light on their toes. Probably a woman. Clarke? No. The silhouette was all wrong. She’d really hoped it’d be Clarke… This person had short hair though. She could see that now. A small, short haired-

Man.

The door opened with a thud. His beady blue eyes were obscured by thin, black frames. He too was dressed in nothing more than a T-shirt & jeans, though unlike Lexa he appeared to have been afforded the privilege of a bright red pair of shoes. The man beamed at Lexa, much to her chagrin. She never made much time for adults who smiled at strangers.

_“Identify yourself”_ she demanded. Her voice was cold, unyielding.

The man laughed a deep, haughty laugh. He examined her from across the room, though Lexa noted he had enough sense not to come any closer.

_“There’s no need for that here, Lexa”_ he began, his tone calm and reassuring. Though the statement itself made Lexa’s blood run cold. Her name sounded foreign coming out of this stranger’s mouth.

“ _Identify yourself”_ she repeated.

The man took only a small step towards her, but a step nonetheless. Lexa jolted up from the bench in retaliation.

Apparently this action alone was sufficient in startling her opponent, as the man immediately raised his arms above his shoulders in surrender.

_“I mean you no harm,”_ he spoke, “ _the transition is always difficult in the first few weeks.”_

_“What transition?”_ Lexa huffed. Her composure was slipping slightly, but in this case she felt that was justified. Nothing was making sense. “ _Explain yourself. Now.”_

The man straightened his glasses and cleared his throat, apparently having made the decision to start over. A wise move, Lexa thought.

“ _My name is Lewis. I’m a producer here at Cloudland- the World’s most popular interactive television series. You, Lexa Woods, have just been killed off_.”

 

 


	2. Anya

 

Anya was tired. 

 

Only a few remained in the dark, rustic dive bar she’d recently come to accept as her new home. Drunks, mostly. And Gus. He’d been here every night since they woke him up, drinking until he forgot his own name. She supposed that made him a drunk too, technically speaking… 

 

Some people handled the memories of their demise better than others. 

 

She’d decided to kick everyone out sooner than usual tonight. It was her turn to drink herself into oblivion this time. One night. The world owed her that. 

 

It’d been three hours since she saw the news projected into the sky a few streets over. She didn’t have a television of her own. Hated the mere thought of it. But even so, she’d be remiss if she didn’t find herself taking the long way home occasionally so that she could take a peek at the latest events that were unfolding in Cloudland: Earth’s only 24 hour streaming series. Ugh, Cloudland. What a stupid name. She’d burn the whole institution down if given the chance. 

 

Tonight was different though. Tonight she didn’t just hate Cloudland; she despised it with every fibre of her being. Because tonight Lexa, her Lexa, had found a reason to live. Then within moments they’d killed her. And they most certainly did not give her the warrior’s death she deserved. 

 

‘Shock value’ the people called it. The producers liked to kill at least one person a season to boost ratings. Anya herself had been an early kill the season prior, until they realised her death hadn’t had the impact they wanted and they killed Finn as well. Probably for the best. She’d always found him a bit bland. Besides, in a twisted turn of fate she supposed Finn’s death had contributed toward what would become known as one of the most compelling relationships in Cloudland’s 25 year history. Clarke and Lexa. Earth worshipped them. 

 

Clarke was a pain in the ass. Anya had tried to kill her more times than she could remember but the damn _skaigirl_ was like a smart-mouthed cockroach; talking her way into survival and shooting people on the rare occasion that words didn’t work. She could see how that kind of composed chaos would have caught Lexa’s attention. Clarke was headstrong and capable of making the decisions others couldn’t. Victory has always stood the back of sacrifice. Anya had tried to instil that in Lexa, but the _youngon_ had struggled to live with that ethos in her early days as _heda._ After her demise, Anya had found peace in knowing that, even if her _sekon_ was to remain trapped in an artificial reality, she at least had someone who finally understood the painful necessity of such sacrifice. But none of that mattered anymore, because Lexa was dead.

 

Except, no. She isn’t. 

 

Anya slipped her hand under the bar, recovering the old bottle of whisky that she reserved only for nights like these. The nights where she was forced to watch another friend die in a world where death itself meant nothing. Everything her _kru_ had been through, the trauma they had endured for the sake of surviving, ultimately meant nothing in the scheme of things. They were all just pawns in a game of life played by people greater than any of them would ever come to realise in their lifetime. She took a swig straight from the bottle, whisky burning at the back of her throat. What a head-fuck.

 

A gruff voice came from the corner of the dimly lit room, “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

 

Gustus. The bloody oaf was still draped over a stool in the rear of the bar. He’d been so quiet that Anya had forgotten to throw him out. With a heaving grunt, the once-great warrior stumbled from his seat and lumbered up to the bar. Anya avoided his gaze and took another sip of whisky. 

 

“I said,” Gustus repeated, “you shouldn’t be doing that, _Anya kom Trikru.”_

 

Anya scowled. “Well,” she hissed, “you shouldn’t be wasting your life away in a rotten old bar every night of your pathetic existence, yet here you are.”

 

“This rotten old bar is your home.” he countered smugly whilst taking another swig of his drink. Anya snatched the glass from his hand, marching to the sink on the other side of the bar where the night’s collection of empty glasses sat and throwing it in with the rest of them. It landed with a crash, shattering several others on its way in. She’d clean that up in the morning. After a pause, Anya sighed and found herself ready to speak again. A soft whisper; barely there. 

 

“Lexa is dead.”

 

“I know.” 

 

Silence. 

 

They both knew what this meant. The world was a nasty place. Dark and full of terror, like the mythical stories of the old world that they had told the children of their clans to scare them into sleeping at night. Only this time, the terrors were real.

 

Anya straightened, steeling her resolve. Lexa was her _sekon_ and the only family she had ever known; even if not linked by blood. She would not let her die twice. 

 

“We have to find her. Before they do.”

 

 


	3. Jake

Jake was bored.

No, he wasn’t bored. Bored, as it is defined, would be to weary by dullness or tedious repetition. That didn’t feel strong enough to account for the gut-wrenching emptiness brought about by the realisation that Jake, one of the smartest and most powerful men on Earth, had been reduced to nothing more than a chess piece in someone else’s game. Someone else, who was definitely not as smart as him and therefore did not _deserve_ to be playing chess at all.

Defeat, maybe that’s what it was.

“Power off,” Jake instructed his holographic monitor as he lumbered up from a plush leather sofa towards his bedroom. Cloudland had outdone itself tonight. He was sure to arrive to a flurry of excitement over the ratings tomorrow morning. Boo-freaking-yah.

Because tonight against his wishes, his prized stallion had died. Lexa was a ratings juggernaut, the queen of Cloudland. She’d done more to skyrocket his latest TV show to success in the two seasons she’d featured than any other person in the history of interactive television. Jake had so many story ideas in mind for her over the next few seasons.

1\. Lexa and Clarke unite to take down the Ice Nation  
2\. Lexa and Clarke once again find themselves on opposite sides when a second Nuclear apocalypse comes  
3\. Lexa tries to put an end to the cycle of violence and death to bring about peace for her people  
4\. Lexa grapples with the realisation that her entire religion is founded upon an appropriation of Skaikru technology  
5\. With Raven’s help, Lexa introduces technological advances to her people but is accused of becoming a Skaikru traitor by clan elders in the process  
6\. Lexa caves under the pressure of leading the twelve clans and, after realising she’s still just a teenager, runs away to open a candle stand in the Ice Nation.

The latter, of course, had been an exasperated joke at the end of a pitch meeting when Jake realised that his new producers - the people _he_ had groomed to take his place - had rejected all of his actual story ideas in favour of employing the cheapest trick in the writing book: shock value. It made him sick. Worse, though, was knowing what would happen to Lexa after she left the series.

Because death was most certainly not the end.

Jake turned his bedside lamp off as he climbed into an empty bed. Sitting atop his nightstand - a picture of him and Abby, a baby Clarke nestled between them. He’d never imagined one day losing his family to a cheap interactive space opera of his own creation, but here he was. Alone in an empty house.

An empty bed.

He had barely closed his eyes when a firm knock at the front door echoed through the building. Jake sighed and pulled himself up to answer it, forgoing the need to get dressed first. A shirt and boxers would do.

As the pioneer of interactive television technology, Jake Griffin had risen to an obscene level of fame and fortune. But not everyone was a fan of his revolutionary entertainment system. Most noticeably, those whose children were snatched for ‘ _game testing_ ’ - those people hated him. Or, those who exited one of his TV series and inevitably ended up captured by one of the various mobs looking to exploit their fame by forcing them to perform in cage fights, circus acts or other inhumane forms of entertainment - they hated him too. None of these things were his decision, but all were his fault.

For all his success, Jake Griffin had become one of the most hated men on Earth.

Therefore, his house was an intricately complex system of cameras, alarms and trip wires that would ordinarily prevent even the savviest of intruders from making it past the exterior gate - let alone the twelve internal gates, dog squads and electrified pool-zones protecting the property. Of course, there was an exception to every rule.

“Anya.” Jake grinned wryly as he opened the door. Clad in a black hoodie and pants, Jake’s counterpart scanned him from head to toe, rolling her eyes at his boxer shorts.

“Did I miss the part where we became friendly enough for you to greet me like this?” she drawled.

“Did I miss the part where you called ahead? I would’ve turned the laser guns off”

Anya stepped past him, scanning the house for any other signs of life. Jake closed the door, locking it twice behind him.

“Relax,” he grunted, “there hasn’t been anyone else in this house for a long time.”

Jake could feel Anya studying him carefully. He already knew why she was here, but this was Anya. Suspicious glances were part of the process.

“Gustus is outside the gates,” she began, “get dressed.”

“I need you to say it first.” Jake challenged, holding her gaze.

Anya huffed.

“Fine. I’m calling in that favour.”

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from the 100 after Lexa died and recently began watching again. This fic is my attempt to rationalise the crazy direction the later seasons seem to have taken. Each chapter will be told from a different characters point of view


End file.
